


You paint my words

by Televa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Televa/pseuds/Televa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur hangs his poems on Francis' door, and Francis hangs his paintings on Arthur's door.This had been their habit for too many years, each of the works carrying memories from their past years. Francis had kept all of the poems Arthur had given to him. And perhaps, he had found his favorite amongst of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You paint my words

**Author's Note:**

> None of the mentioned characters belong to me, so I don't get any kind of profit (other than satisfaction, that is). But the poem is made by me, so yay. Woohoo.  
> Enjoy your visit here and if you find anything that need to be corrected, let me know asap!

Ever since they had become first the best frenemies in the elementary and eventually the best friends in high school, they had had this habit of sharing the best of their works with each other. Before it had only been ranting about their newest masterpieces (which were soon replaced by other ‘masterpieces’) on the phone, but after moving to live under the same roof at the university’s worst dormitory, their sharing was more practical. Whenever either of them had written or painted something incredibly beautiful, they hung their work on the door of the other’s bedroom door. 

Two years after the beginning of their studying (medicine and anatomy for Francis, history for Arthur), Francis’ belongings slowly started to move across the corridor into Arthur’s room for good. Soon all of their everyday stuff were in the same room, and they realized that it was no sense to not to use Francis’ old bedroom as a storage for the equipment.

Now, when Arthur had a lecture on church history and Francis himself didn’t have anything to attend, The Frenchman finally had some time to go through all those poems Arthur had shared with him. Skimming through a big box full of papers brought up old memories from the time they had fought on daily basis, inventing new curses just to piss off the other blond. Some of the poems were so sad Francis had to abandon them instantly, but some of them were so joyful they basically radiated happiness. But, there was this one paper, around a year old if he remembered correctly, that Francis had loved ever since he laid his eyes on it. 

For Francis, it was the best poem Arthur had ever hung on the door of his bedroom.

_You are an artist just like me,_  
 _but you paint my words_  
 _when I write your colours_  
 _You are a bloomed flower, destined to shine bright  
_ _I am a blade of grass, destined to stand by your side_

_I am a biker and you are a walker,_  
 _yet you manage to catch me_  
 _I can hear you footsteps, your everything,_  
 _for this is our home and we both belong here_  
 _with your perfumes and my books_  
 _your brushes and my ink_  
 _our smells and our lives_  
 _for this is our home;  
_ _the place we both belong to_

_You are always so warm,_  
 _just like my morning tea,_  
 _no matter of the time of the day_  
 _because whenever I am near to you_  
 _that bizarre feeling awakens inside_  
 _And it scares me_  
 _that one day, when everything is normal,  
_ _you are gone and I am dust again_

_Still the future doesn’t matter_  
 _because we are both here in the present_  
 _with your perfumes and my books_  
 _and your colours on my fingers_  
 _my words across your horizon  
_ _Our home so messed with the papers_

The blond student remembered vividly how on that morning it had rained cats and dogs and how he had heard Arthur sneaking in their small apartment trying to be as silent as possible (but then again, Arthur had never had good rogue skills and he had failed miserably, waking up the whole 4th floor).

As the door to Arthur’s bedroom had finally closed, Francis had practically jumped out of his bed ignoring the horrible cold feeling that greeted him, his only goal to read the newest poem as soon as possible. When he had finished it, he had stormed out of his room into Arthur’s and straight on his bed, only to be welcomed by a very grumpy Englishman who so hard tried to pretend to be just awoken (of course the new pair of woolen socks on the floor had appeared there during the night, just like the night lamp had turned itself on).

During that day they had stayed in Arthur’s bed, ruffling their already bed-ridden hairs and throwing insults that were soon replaced by laughter and soft sounds of two pairs of lips touching. Francis had thanked Arthur so many times that the Briton had had to cover his mouth by putting his own hand against it, but not even that had managed to keep Francis from chanting “thank you” over and over again.

The poem indeed was Francis favorite.


End file.
